


Closer Than You Know

by Volantis



Series: BARBARUS: a Fred-104/Veta Lopis Series [2]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fred missing Veta, He's not sure exactly how to proceed, Hopefulness, Late night text messages, Post Halo: Retribution, Reflection, but he's ready to check the map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volantis/pseuds/Volantis
Summary: 'Am I overthinking this?...'
Relationships: Frederic-104/Veta Lopis
Series: BARBARUS: a Fred-104/Veta Lopis Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037559
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	Closer Than You Know

**Author's Note:**

> This is a partner piece to my story, 'Light Years Away', which is from Veta's pov. Thank you for reading.
> 
> Nov 19: As with 'Light Years Away', I've done some significant editing on this one. Not quite as much as LYA, but enough that I feel like it reads a bit differently now. Sweeter, perhaps. Fred is a precious boy. ' w '

As he exited the conference room, Fred ducked his head to avoid the odd, ornate, wooden door frame. Some aging UNSC officers favoured the polished decorations crowning their conversation spaces - he used to find the fixtures overly indulgent, but these days he could appreciate the sight of the warm, organic, lines. Just so long as he remembered to duck.

Walking down the winding grey hallways, he actually found himself relieved to return to the small office he'd been granted. He and Blue Team were staged in preparatory status for an upcoming operation; allegedly an escort detail. The briefing he'd just attended, however, had offered far less intel than he was usually comfortable with initiating on, and nobody in the room had been all too keen on clarifying and assuaging his many concerns. The entire affair was rife with typical ONI red tape. Moreover, the plan included that he'd be interfacing with another AI, and already the back of his neck was tingling.

Back in the relative peace of his small office, Fred loosened his tie and hung his jacket, before standing in the low light with his eyes closed and allowing himself a long, slow, breath. Feeling sufficiently decompressed, he faced the blue glow of the computer as it waited, brightly reminding him that the day wasn't over yet. He didn't actually mind the paperwork, as the effort often kept his mind from wandering, and offered him an opportunity to enjoy some time to himself. Sitting down, he pulled up the hardlight keyboard beneath the holoscreen and logged in, watching the rapid strings of encryption flow by.  
Kelly was likely resting after having put in a few good hours in the gym. Linda, he suspected, was tinkering in the armory; handling her own preparations for tomorrow. 

For him, it was time to draft several insistent and repetitious requests for additional intel. _'Squeaky wheel,'_ he mused.  
The secure channels he'd use would offer the advantage of an exclusion delay, which should prevent any dissenting voices from abruptly silencing him mid-sentence. Fred rolled his eyes as he swallowed the last of his frustrations from the briefing.   
_'Can't treat me like a kid at the adult's table now, Tulerio.'_ Fred smirked, feeling proud of himself.   
This sort of remote needling wasn't a practice of pettiness, he resolved. He was above that, certainly. This was - well, 'insurance of tactical superiority' sounded nice. 

As his account finally cleared, he accessed Waypoint, already halfway done drafting the first complaint in his head, when he noticed the highlighted band of a very particular shielded dummy account; a new message waiting, after five months of silence.   
The intel requests could wait a moment longer, as he opened the chain. 

**\--I do miss your handsome smile. //**

Fred's eyebrows raised. He may have blinked too many times and, didn't know why, but leaning toward the screen just suddenly felt appropriate.  
Exhaling long and heavy, he felt his face and chest began to feel warm, prompting a few hurried glances toward the door; locks were on. 

Fred read and re-read the short comm too many times to be reasonable for all six words of it. His comprehension felt sharp, despite the words themselves seeming almost fantasy.   
The timestamp was recent as well, barely twenty minutes ago. Scrolling the chain up a few entries, he found only the doc request notes they'd previously exchanged. No other context to be found - though really, he didn't need help extrapolating on something so direct.   
_'What could have prompted,'_ Fred silently moved his lips along with the thought, as though it even mattered what had spurred the note.   
Hands moving to the keyboard, he went to tap out a response, ready to request clarification, or at the least, quickly remind Veta that these systems were monitored, and not intended as social media platforms.   
He did neither; pushing down each knee-jerk impulse, and pulling his hands back onto the desktop.

 _'Am I overthinking this?'_  
A thoughtful expression worked over his features, eyebrows tightly knit together.   
In his mind, he was **always** the one being a little too awkward, literally struggling now and then to make sense of the motivations of regular people. He'd disregard ques, misinterpret turns of phrase, or flat out fail to react when he didn't realize there was a "thing" happening. _Was_ there anything to misinterpret here? Moreover, was Veta 'regular people'?  
She'd certainly made a strong and successful career out of understanding them to a science. Having had the privilege to work alongside her many times, he had seen firsthand the quality of her analysis; she could read a man as though his every deed lay written across his chest. Peel apart any personality to reveal the core. Just days after they'd met, she'd managed to find the seams in his armor - in every sense, actually.   
Leaning on his elbows against the desk, Fred stared into the thin brush strokes coating the metal surface, tracing a few slowly with his fingertips. 

Most of his life he'd had the oft confirmed impression that the sum total of his personality only carried value in how neatly it could be applied in a professional capacity - aptitude for leadership. Access to clarity amidst tension. Rational. Analytical. Methodical. Words that were all a _part_ of who he was, but the dossiers didn't much care if he was 'kind of funny' or that he liked to draw even though he wasn't very good at it. He'd learned to make origami cranes - the UNSC certainly didn't care.   
Truthfully, very few instances existed, since his life began at six years old, that would countermand the status quo. Moments, when people would see him for something more than the only thing he was ever raised to be. Fewer still with regard to anyone outside of his most private circles. Rare as it was, it was precious; calling back to those important moments during times of pain or discouragement were like a miracle salve on any heartache, offering him almost limitless resolve under pressure. There was a deeply meaningful notion to being truly **seen** by someone. 

As it stood, he wasn't ignorant to his place amongst military and public society. Fred felt himself sigh as his gaze searched the room for no particular focus, finding comfort in denying an encompassing idle. One hand rubbing slowly along the beveled edge of his desk.   
_'To be seen...'_ Fred flexed his jaw as he thought, swiveling in the chair side to side in slow, lazy, turns. 

Most people, militarily speaking, didn't seem to entertain the thought of Spartans quite as human beings, specifically of his generation - he knew that. Instead, people saw them as combat machinery; exceedingly valuable, to be certain, but _assets_ none the less. Like a highly decorated Pelican.   
He found that there were two distinct sides to this mindset as well. One popular camp were those who looked at him and his fellow Spartans as nothing short of deified constructs. Idolic monoliths shrouded in the absolutism of scientific perfection. Fred felt himself frowning. It was borderline unsettling, if he was honest. Being glorified and propagandized. Voices proselytizing in the streets, claiming Spartans as divine tools - Mankind's perfectly forged hammer. 

Then, there was the other side of the coin - the one's who felt their own destinies were somehow being cheated or humiliated simply by occupying the same space.   
The thought reminded him of a time he'd brought about a confused chaos amongst an entire unit of marines, after raising his faceplate and revealing he was in fact just a man in a suit after all. The soldiers had later called him a _cyborg_ while tucked into one of the many huddled conversations they'd boldly assumed he couldn't hear. The moniker had carried and indisputably negative connotation.   
Regardless, he'd held no distaste or contempt for those soldiers; never had and never would. The lot had upheld their commitments, took pride in their dedications, and looked out for one another - all tenets of service that he valued himself.   
Spartans, by design, are a genetically aberrant genus of humanity with an almost singular, identifiable, purpose. An unsavory beginning, as some would point out, only to be later petitioned as 'heroes' in haste against a desperate bid for survival. No matter - they were still, to most, little more than hardware.   
Though with a creeping discomfort that's grown over the years, Fred still understood that; and he couldn't fault anyone for it. 

As he leaned back in the chair, much to the fret of the burdened furniture, Fred felt a brief pang of frustration. Biting lightly at his lip, he reconsidered if it wasn't instead a case of confusion. Maybe both. True, he wasn't _terribly_ bothered by the general perceptions of others, even agitating as some could be. He took extreme seriousness in the welfare and advocacy of those under his command. His general popularity otherwise seemed effectually irrelevant where it bore no critical impact.   
ODSTs were notorious loud mouths, but also remarkable individuals who knew to set aside their personal predispositions to get the job done, reserving their stubborn malcontent until after the dust had settled.   
The cycle was reliable. Accountable. It made sense. 

So, what was it that he was doing _differently_ with Veta? 

There had been a time when she'd hated him.  
As he thought back to that mission on Gao - back to meeting her, and in that very same moment, immediately facing her critical and explicit derision. He understood that too. He could accept her personal views and relationship with the UNSC, UEG - and him. Spartans all. Many outer colony worlds held similar, oft well supported, opinions. Her general insults had been harmless, but a driven insistence developed, and he'd been worried that officials had sent someone unfit for the job - that Veta wouldn't be able to bridge her overwhelming bias and investigate the scenes with the impartial scrutiny and professional discipline needed to maintain a cohesive operation.   
Fred shook his head - he'd been the one who was wrong about her. 

Narrowing his eyes, Fred tilted his head slightly. _'Of course, you did later put a bomb in my backpack, didn't you?'_ A single laugh leaving his lips as a small puff. _'I forgive you...'_

Fred eyed the clock at the bottom corner of his screen, and raised an eyebrow. Had an hour really passed?   
It was admittedly out of character for him to succumb so completely to distraction...as his eyes drew back to her message. The words floated there wistfully, reminding him of the very excellent news that Veta Lopis thought he had a handsome smile. Just the sight of it was almost hypnotic in its own right, as he constantly felt the urge to grin each time.   
_'Amazing how so few words can say so much...'_

Without a doubt, he had come to enjoy his once-casual, eventually-companionable, conversations with Veta, where able. Always looking forward to stolen moments if ever the opportunity arose, and it seemed for a time that Blue Team was tasked with providing security and support for her and her Ferret team with relative frequency. He got to watch, first hand, as she evolved from a solitary operator, into a team-oriented leader; an unaugmented agent working in lockstep with a team of S-IIIs.   
She was constantly impressing him with her resourcefulness and endurance; she'd sought no special concessions, and never contained her candor. It really had only been a matter of time until Osman felt she'd no longer required a consistent attachment, or ongoing assistance in the continued training of the Gammas.   
He knew he felt an awesome respect for her, and she had absolutely deserved the autonomy, but...  
Fred sighed, dejected. It felt entirely selfish, actually...but he wished those assignments hadn't run dry.   
  
It always seemed like there was never enough time.   
There never really had been, had there? 

**\--I do miss your handsome smile. //**

A small laugh rumbled from his throat, muffled and deep behind closed lips, drawing another warm smile in its wake; it felt like magic.   
_'Maybe there is no difference...'_ he thought, as he slowly reached a hand toward the projected hardlight of the holoscreen, and gently ran his fingertips over her words.  
 _'...she just **see's** me.'_

Fred slid his hands down into his lap and laced his fingers together, looking into his palms. There was a slight heat over his face as he looked reverently at the way his fingers fit together, recalling one of those special and important moments. One he thought of often.   
It had been fleeting, but private, and deeply - memorably - meaningful. 

Blue Team had reassignment orders after a debrief from, what he'd later learn to be, their last joint op, near on five months ago. Fred laughed quietly to himself as he thought back to how he'd hesitated in his quarters a few minutes too long, all but practicing what he'd say before setting off that evening. He'd felt so nervous and unprepared; not even sure what he was supposed to be preparing _for_. But when he'd opened the door, Veta had already been there - just standing steps away. Always anticipating him.   
Hindsight, of course, offered him the lasting embarrassment of how he'd buckled, blurted a rigid farewell, and offered his hand for a handshake. She had accepted it, but lingered, her small hand wrapped up in his own. Even now, he still feels certain that they were equally caught of guard when the gesture became an embrace. He couldn't remember quite who had started it, if that mattered at all, but he _would_ always remember the feeling of just the two of them, alone, in that quiet hallway, blessed in the rarest of privacy. She'd tucked her head against his chest, with both arms wrapped tight just over his waist. He'd felt her warm breath through his clothing, curling his fingers into the cloth of her wool sweater, and only just barely feeling some of her soft hair against his chin. He'd wanted nothing more right then, than to simply fold around her; to stay that way for as long as she'd allow.

Thinking back on it like this, he could almost feel her there against him. She'd smelled like cinnamon.   
But then their hands. After Veta had stepped back, he'd run his hands down along the backs of her arms until their hands had slid together - her small fingers, fitting one by one, between his own.   
Fred blinked a few times quickly, swallowing hard, and looked back around the dark, empty, space; the computer's holoscreen had idled to sleep.   
With a deep breath, Fred hesitantly separated his hands and woke the computer, fingers just hovering over the hardlight keys. 

He didn't know what to say. 

Somewhere - heavily classified, no doubt - was Veta Lopis.   
Fred smiled lightly as he imagined her now, buried in documentation while six coffees in, wearing the same t-shirt and sweats for days on end, and wrangling three gene-altered teenagers. Who knew what cycle of the day she was facing, or in what state of rest.  
At least at some point, it had all stopped for a moment, and she had thought of him.   
Thought about how she missed his smile. 

About how she missed him.

Fred's eyebrows rose slowly, lips parting just enough to allow a soft, but sudden inhale.  
"How so few words can say so much," he spoke again into the dim of the room, revisiting his own thoughts. The revelation was hushed, but no less exuberant, and there was a noticeable uptick in his entire posture as he typed a short reply. No hesitation preceded hitting send, and **there it was** \- Fred felt his pulse quicken.   
The sight of the two small notes, at such stark contrast to the cold workplace minutia hanging just above, seemed to embolden the words even deeper. Two sincere, unfurled, declarations, reaching out across an unknowable distance. 

**\-- I miss you too...//**   


Leaning back again, Fred felt a sense of calm almost as keenly as his excitement. It was quite a multifaceted thrill; sharing such a deeply personal statement with Veta, who herself had prompted with one of her own, and the whole event playing out over a secure military channel. Total and willful disregard for proper protocol, for sure.   
And entirely worth it. 

He waited several minutes before setting himself back to task on mission prep and intel surveys. In a little less than ten hours now, he'd hoped to have a clearer picture of things, lest he stand out in front of the full operative crew on the _Barbarus's_ deck and make a fool of himself. _'_

 _'People don't often choose to follow blind men into unknown territory,'_ he chided to himself, before freezing suddenly, fingers perfectly still over the keys as that very thought repeated over in his mind; his gaze looking through the screen. 

He wondered.

  
Would she choose to? 


End file.
